


To be with you

by nerdy-flower (baconnegg)



Series: Vegamarch Chronicles [4]
Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Asexuality, Best stepsiblings, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Dorks, Drabble, Ernest means well, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Growing Up, Kids growing up and trying to be good at life, M/M, Not tinyshipping, Slice of Life, brief angst, good communication, no plot just iyashikei, spoilers?, supportive parents, they get together in adulthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 10:15:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16490666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baconnegg/pseuds/nerdy-flower
Summary: Ernest is getting older and figuring things out. It's not easy, but dads, a stepbrother, and a great friend are all he really needs.





	1. Chapter 1

Hugo knows change has come to roost when Ernest's dinnertime debriefs turn from reluctant, barely-there details to soap-opera recaps with all the accompanying comedy and tragedy. 

“-and I didn't even know this, but Mackenzie told me later, that they were dating before he even dumped Emily, which is like- come _on,_ dude. Did you look at all your options and pick the douchiest possible one?” 

“That is very selfish,” Hugo says, frowning around a mouthful of chicken. “I always thought Pat was a nice young man.” 

“So did I!” Ernest snorts, stabbing at his rice and sending some spilling over the side. “He's literally the only reason I've been hanging out with the theatre kids. The rest of them are so-” 

Damien cuts in as Ernest briefly flails, searching for a word. “Dramatic?” 

“Weak,” Ernest pulls a face, seemingly physically pained by the quality of the dad-joke, while Damien appears rather pleased with himself, chuckling into his hand. “Anyway, so Mackenzie said that Pat told her he was just going to keep it on the downlow, basically, until summer because Emily's moving, right? It won't be as awkward then. Except I guess they kind of forgot that their Insta accounts aren't private? So now everyone knows, and Emily has to stage manage her ex-boyfriend while he has a romantic subplot with her former rugby teammate. Because that's not going to go terribly at all.” 

“Good heavens,” Damien replies after a moment, dabbing his lips with a cloth napkin. “I don't recall any tales so tangled from my youth, but then, perhaps I've repressed all that nonsense.” 

“Didn't they get voted 'cutest couple' in the yearbook?” Hugo cringes as Ernest enthusiastically nods, kindly not answering with his mouth full. “Oh god, and that just went to the printers- No wonder Ms. Lee had aspirin with her lunch today.” 

“Yeah, it's all like ten levels of stupid,” Ernest grumbles, not even distracted by Duchess' damp nose nudging at his lap. “I swear, I'm gonna have like no friends by graduation because I can't deal with everybody acting like they've found their soulmate and then dumping them in two weeks. No one our age is gonna get married until our thirties, anyway, shit's expensive.” 

“Language,” Hugo chimes in, met with the usual roll of the eyes and offended huff. 

“One's youth can be rather fraught and strained,” Damien adds with a knowing grimace, their cutlery clinking audibly against their plates in the quiet coziness of Hugo's dining room. “But you'll find people who don't engage with those sorts of theatrics. And besides, those who do will soon grow out of it.” 

“Yeah right, I've heard that one before,” Ernest scoffs, returning to his food. He's quiet for the rest of the meal, and their walk through the park at dusk, Duchess and her boy running ahead. Damien's fingers find Hugo's after sending a quick check-in text to Lucien, and he feels a tentative kind of bliss run through him in the warmth of the setting sun. 

*** 

Hugo's deep-down, etched-on-his-bones love for his job keeps him motivated through all the obnoxious students, righteously indignant parents, and illogical funding cuts, but he does keep a small, hate-fuelled torch burning for outdoor supervision. It's especially hard not to envision his student loan payments going up in smoke while breaking up fights, confiscating cigarettes, or discovering another hopelessly unoriginal piece of lewd graffiti. 

Today has been blissfully quiet, if blanketed by damp warmth. He wipes sweat from his brow as he continues his circle around the middle school building. A new fast food joint had recently opened down the street and the promise of buy-one-get-one fries had draw most of the troublemakers away. With the bell approaching, he turns to head in and spots a familiar orange hoodie near the emergency exit ramp behind the library and sighs. No one is ever up to anything good behind the library. 

He's still a good thirty feet away, obscured by the parked rustbucket cars in the student lot when he glimpses a shock of pink hair attached to one of his Comp Lit students from Ernest's grade. Tahereh is her name and she's giggling, along with his son, and leaning in awfully close- Nope.

Nope, nope, nope. He turns on his heel and walks away as quickly and quietly as he can. His son deserves privacy, and he had mentioned being paired on a geography project with that girl- 

Hugo blows out a sigh, purposefully forgetting the follies of his own adolescence before he gets himself worked up over nothing. 

*** 

A lengthy text conversation with Nick is an unusual relief. He would have preferred to do it by phone, but the man is in England of all places on a work trip. Besides, it's a little more private should Ernest come strolling in. 

HV: You're sure you're okay with me taking the helm on this one? 

NH: Oh yeah, I'm not worried. You're better at this kinda stuff than I am.   
NH: I'll be home in a couple days so I can run recon if things go south lol 

Hugo does manage to chuckle at that. Nick instructs him to break a leg and says he's turning in but to text if need be. A lengthy message pops in from Damien, having been Hugo's confidante the previous day, reminding him that his own similar chat with Lucien a few years prior was awkward at the time, but went a long way in maintaining good communication. As well as reassurance that Hugo is a wonderful father with no reason to doubt himself, and this is another prime example of it. 

The usual expressions of affection at the close never fail to make Hugo smile. He types a slightly longer than necessary reply and pushes his glasses up. With a silent pep talk, he heads upstairs. It's not like he's going in blind. They've had plenty of very open talks since Ernest was small. About bodies and boundaries and babies. This topic isn't inherently uncomfortable, it's on him to shake that mindset. 

Ernest's room is in its usual disarray, but he beckons him in quickly and takes his earbuds out. Flat on his back with his tablet held overhead. As good a start as any. 

He assumes the best non-threatening parental figure pose, sitting on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees. Ernest is way too clever to fall for the small-talk nonsense so he skips to the point. “I hope you're not upset by this, but I saw you and Tahereh behind the school last-” 

“What the hell?” Ernest bites back, anger narrowing his eyes as he drops his tablet and sits up fully. “You're spying on me now?” 

“Of course not!” Hugo answers, quick and even with hands held up. “I was on yard duty, I turned right around. The only reason I'm bringing it up is-” 

“She's not my girlfriend,” Ernest spits back, blushing and running hot. He draws his knees up and hugs them, a habit leftover from his toddling years. “We just kissed because we're cool like that. It was whatever. Don't make a big deal out of it.” 

“I'm not, I promise,” Hugo says, confused and not entirely convinced but trying not to let on. “But say you did find someone you liked and wanted to start dating them, your Pop and I wouldn't be opposed at all. I only wanted to check in with you about er, safety and-” 

“Oh my god,” Ernest covers his face, dragging the last word out into a strangled note of exasperation. “I've had sex ed like five times already, I don't need this. Please just shut up.” 

Hugo decides admonishing him via their no 'shut up' rule would only make things worse. “I know you have all the basics covered. I just need you to know that you can always come to me or Pop for anything, okay? Don't ever feel embarrassed.” He reaches into his shirt pocket, takes a deep breath, and removes the small cardboard container, pushing it across the comforter towards his son. “And if you need these at any point, don't-” 

“Oh my god, no,” Ernest's scowl deepens, the blush creeping down his neck as he explodes in frustration. “No, no, _no_! I'm never gonna need those, so just get the hell out of here!” 

Hugo feels the wrinkles crease on his face as he struggles to say the right thing. Had the divorce put him off the idea of relationships entirely? God, he's too young to be thinking that way, isn't he? “I just want you to have these in case, you know, you meet someone and you want-” 

“I don't 'want,' I never have and I'm never going to!” Ernest throws his hands up, eyes still flashing. “I'm a fucking freak, are you happy now? Get _out!_ ” 

Hugo does not, merely stills as Ernest mashes his face into his knees, actually vibrating from anger, sadness, or both. It nearly does him in, there's nothing that hurts him more than seeing his son in pain. Thankfully, he had said just enough for the puzzle pieces to snap together in Hugo's head. 

When the boy's breathing evens out, Hugo dares to inch closer, the mattress sagging with his weight. “Ernest, you're not a freak. There's lots of asexual people in the world and-” 

“Name one.” The snappish tone is muffled by denim and knobby knees. 

“Well, I mean, I don't know any personally,” Hugo says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But they do exist, they're not unicorns.” 

“Unicorns don't exist? This entire day sucks.” They both laugh hesitantly at that, a sigh resounding from under the orange hoodie. “Mrs. Finn said in health that people who say they're asexual are just dealing with like, trauma or whatever. We're all driven to make more people, so it makes no sense scientifically.” 

Hugo silently counts to three in his head. “Have you ever been hurt?” 

That finally picks his head up, glaring at his father again. “No!” 

“Then clearly that's not true. Ca- Mrs. Finn is sadly misinformed.” And would be told as much, without directly mentioning Ernest. Seniority be damned, he was going to have words with the Board that's what it takes. He manages a small smile for Ernest. “If sex is only about reproduction, how do you account for gay people?” 

“Gay people can still like- do what's necessary to make a kid.” Ernest waves a hand towards himself. “C'est voila, or whatever.” 

Hugo snort-laughs at that, he does admire his son's wit even in serious moments. “Well, so can ace people. There's lots of ways to make a family.” Ernest merely grumbles in reply and looks away. “And- I know it really doesn't seem that way sometimes, but there's a lot more to relationships than the physical bits. They're important to some people, but not everyone, and not in the same way.” 

Ernest stays resolutely silent, staring at a fraying movie poster on the wall. “You will find someone who loves you, mijo. It might take time, but you'll find them.” 

“Yeah, when I'm finally old enough to join Virgin4Virgin dot net.” Ernest only slightly resists his dad's chastising ruffle of his hair, glancing down at the box of condoms with moderate disgust. “Can you throw those out and we pretend this never happened?” 

“I'll put them in the bathroom cupboard. I'm not saying you will, but if you ever did want to be with someone that way-” Hugo tucks the box in his pocket as Ernest's pained groan cuts him off. “Listen, this could have been much worse. Before I went to my first party, your Abuela made me sit at the dining room table and wouldn't let me leave until I correctly put a condom on a banana.” 

“You're lying,” Ernest replies blankly, only for his eyes to bug out at Hugo's unfailing stare. “You're serious? Oh my god, that's- I can't believe Abuela is capable of such savagery.” 

“You don't know the half of it,” Hugo chuckles darkly, then carefully touches Ernest's shoulder. “Hey, I'm really glad you told me. I won't tell Pop, that's your conversation to have with him.” 

“Thanks,” Ernest glances down, frowning and fidgeting in place. “Can I like, go now? I promised Carmensita I'd help her set up for open mic night.” 

Hugo smiles stiffly, moving out of his son's way. “Yeah, you can go now. Text me when you're there, alright?” 

Ernest makes a non-committal noise and hurries down the stairs, drawing the attention of Duchess. Hugo shuts the bedroom door behind him with a small sigh. 

*** 

Carmensita's dad comes with the most fringe benefits by far. Not only are they allowed 'backstage' provided they help out and don't cause trouble (Ernest never has, something about how calm Mat is kinda intimidates him to be honest, it's the ones with the longest fuses that you have to watch out for), they get to enjoy the whole show for free and eat/drink anything leftover at the end of the night. Even if some of the acts are a little weird, it's still way cooler than sitting around watching TV. 

“Hugo knows he's picking you up, right?” Lucien asks over the roof of his secondhand car, keys in his hand. “I've got plans after.” 

Ernest grins wide. “Man, don't ask him out if you can't even say his name right.” 

Lucien somewhat-gently shoves him as they cross the small parking lot. “Hey, have you ever heard about shut the hell up?” 

He disappears into the crowd and Ernest soon finds Carmensita. He's been spending way more time with her lately. Girls aren't gross about sex like all his guy friends are now, making “that's what she said” jokes literally every five seconds. She's also one of the last vestiges of sanity in his grade, as off-put by the constant dating drama as he is. They sit in the back kitchen, chatting with the younger, more anxious performers and talking about 'Hamilton' between sets. 

“I'm pretty sure I'm gonna listen to the cast album once a week for the rest of my life,” she says, cheek full of Right Said Banana Bread, or whatever it's called this week. “And I'm totally okay with that.” 

“Oh, once a week minimum,” Ernest nods eagerly, leaning out to watch some college kid plunk away on an acoustic guitar. Bo-ring. “I would straight up sell my soul to write that good. Like, find me one lyric that doesn't land. One, I dare you.” 

“It doesn't exist,” she concurs, picking a crumb out of her front braces. “Oh! You'll never guess who's finally putting out a new album!” 

“Who?” 

And on and on it goes. Even though the linoleum hurts his butt, chilling with Carmensita is his favourite part of the week. No fighting, no bullshit, just goofs and talking about whatever. She's basically the funniest person he knows, doing an impression of Damien that has him choking on his own spit. It makes him forget everything else. Well, almost. 

Once everyone files out, they pick up their brooms and try to clean up quickly while Mat counts the money. He heads into the back to put a bank bag together and leaves them jamming to the music still playing over the speakers. 

Ernest stops polishing the counter to the beat, his curiosity getting the best of him. “Hey, 'Sita?” 

Carmensita glances up, still doing something between the mashed potato and the tootsie roll while sweeping, not in the least caring about the backlit glass storefront behind her. He wishes he were that cool. “Yeah?” 

“Do you think asexuality's like, a thing?” 

“Oh yeah, sure,” Carmensita replies, knocking a couple muffin wrappers from beneath a table like she's going for the slapshot. “Why?” 

“Eh, no reason.” Ernest shrugs and keep polishing. “Just seems kinda weird to me, is all?” 

“Not really though,” Carmensita pushes her pink glasses back up, tucking the broom under her arm to gesture. “It's like that thing in that Bruce Willis superhero movie. If there's someone at one end of the spectrum, there's gotta be someone else at the other end, plus all the people in the middle, right?” 

Ernest makes a considering noise, pitching his scrubber into the sink. “Yeah, you're right.” 

Mat returns and they lock up, Hugo's car humming in the empty street. Ernest fist-bumps Carmensita as she heads off with her dad. “We're still on for the fair next Saturday right? I'm retaking my skee ball title this year!” 

“In your dreams,” she sticks her tongue out and waves to him. “Don't get grounded, okay?” 

“I won't!” Ernest grins, turning and shuffling towards the hopefully not-awkward, air-conditioned comfort of his dad's car.


	2. Chapter 2

College is no longer the enormous weed-scented anxiety stick cracking Ernest across the face each morning upon rising from his plastic twin mattress slumber. Now he has a double mattress, so his feet don't hang off the end for ghosts to grab anymore. 

Going home isn't the relief he once silently relished during semester breaks, either. A couple fast-paced months of last-minute cramming, disappointing parties, and learning how to survive in a strange city followed by returning to a town lacking a twenty-four hour convenience store was initially like a nice, sweet pot brownie at the end of a bad week, but quickly lost its flavour with each change. Duchess had to get put down after a sudden illness and the worst overnight bus trip of his life, rest her aged pup soul. Every semester, someone moved away to a school that wasn't his. The neighbourhood, all his favourite hangout spots now belong to kids way younger than him. He's supposed to be an adult, but once he's finished talking about school, the neighbourhood parents don't have anything left to say and ditch him for another helping of scalloped potatoes. 

The prospect of returning after senior year rubs every his entire being the wrong way. He needs to land a sick-ass internship next year or he's screwed. 

Actually, he's fibbing a bit. The other thing all the local dads liked asking him about is his love life, which is somehow even more excruciating than keeping his grades high enough to avoid painfully awkward phone calls to Pop and Dad-and-by-extension-Damien. He had gotten the most wasted he possibly could without needing hospitalization, several times, in freshman year and still he can't forget Mister SoCal-4-Jesus' attempt at helpful dating advice. After his divorce. The cringe was beyond real. 

'Getting girls,' if that is a phrase people legitimately say, is actually not a problem for him. After a brief awkward stage, which he has diligently purged from the Internet, he came out looking pretty good. Not like, boy band-level or whatever, but pretty good-looking. Muscular and tall, a lot like Tio Marcel, and supposedly a lot like his grandfather, too. Blessed with the scruffy five o'clock shadow that looks hot instead of homeless. And once he started working out? He got attention, lots, and it's kinda awesome. 

Except, as the weird old saying goes, women have needs too. And he doesn't. And that invariably causes an issue. 

He's able to keep up the image for a while. Not pressuring girls to go full home-run on the first date actually makes him fairly popular- which is beyond depressing, but he tries not to think too hard about it, lest he punches some douche at the next rager and ends up with a record. Forget jail, the guilt trip would be punishment worth than death. 

He's not sex-repulsed- a term gleaned from closed-door Googling, even though asexuality is the kind of thing you can by-definition Google with the door open, but whatever. He's attracted to girls in another sense- and exclusively girls, because someone had to be the hetero sheep of their immediate family. He tried macking down on a guy out back of a party in sophomore year and the mutual facial hair made it feel like kissing Velcro. Nice enough dude, but not what he wants 

What does he want? He thinks he knows. Pretty eyes, full soft lips, cute laugh, fun to talk to, very into cuddles. Girls are so goddamn soft and he _loves it,_ honestly. After they take that bra off and sit back in their undone jean shorts- outstanding. A blessing. Makes him wish he were an art major so he could oil painting the hell out of it. It's not a hundred percent aesthetic attraction either, he likes closeness. Kissing, the press of bare skin, holding someone close and letting time slip away. He loves it. 

But further than that? Hard nope- Well actually, he only gets the half-hearted 'sup' kind of hardness from rolling around and friction. He could not be less turned on if he undressed a girl to find out she was actually made of newspapers. He doesn't even get wet dreams. He's missing that wire, wherever it is, and nothing can fix what's not there. 

He could be honest about this, maybe not open a Starpence date with it, but bring it up at some point and be real with the sweet girls he talks with out in stranger's living rooms. But then, he'd miss out on so many meaningful conversations. 

“Can you stop?” Ernest snaps, prying her hand off his crotch yet again. “I said no, okay?” 

“What's wrong?” Addison pulls away and tightens her arms across her varsity tank top, gloss-sticky lips pouting in the dim light. “If you're not into me, then say so. Don't invite me over just to blow me off.” 

“I didn't,” he says, completely exasperated. He'd invited her over to game, that's why his gaming system was plugged in and the bag of Doritos is open. If he invited her over for sex he would have said so, or used different emojis or something. People know when sex is a possibility, right? How do they know to grab condoms otherwise? “I am into you, I just don't wanna go there tonight.” 

“Why not? It's not like you're-” Her smile curls up as she snorts a derisive laugh, covering her mouth. “Oh my god, are you a _virgin?_ No way!” 

“Yeah, so- Whatever,” Ernest runs a hand through his post-midterms-shaggy hair. “It's not like-” 

Addison deposits her long-limbed self in his lap again, interrupting him with a kiss, and then another. “Hey, it's okay, I'm sorry for laughing. I've never been a guy's first before...” 

“And you still won't be tonight,” Ernest blocks her pawing at his already half-undone shirt buttons. “Because I've said no literally five times?” 

“Aw, don't be embarrassed-” 

“I'm not embarrassed, you're just an asshole.” The words pop out with the familiar bald fury of his early teens, stopping her hands in their tracks. 

Addison looks shocked, then pissed. Her cheeks flush and she hops off the bed, grabbing her purse on her way to the door. “Wait, don't-” 

A nice, big slam rattles the whole frame, Ernest's teeth clenching with it. He hears some murmurs and scrambling across the apartment and quickly opens the door to the bare, cinderblock kitchen-living room combo that weirdly has no door to the hallway. His roommate opens his bedroom door at the same time, face scrinched with sleep and befuddlement as he yanks his pajama pants up. “The hell was that?” 

“Sorry, sorry, fuckin'- girl problems,” Ernest waves it off before covering his eyes. Now he's embarrassed. “I'm really sorry, dude, go back to sleep. She's totally gone.” 

“No worries, bro. G'night,” Ethan yawns and waves, stumbling back in to likely collapse on his boyfriend. He's such a good roomie, never gets wound up about anything and always shares his mom's lasagna. He doesn't deserve this bullshit. 

Ernest shuts his own door quietly, flopping on his bed with a drawn-out curse. He'll probably get a nasty email from the res life office because that's just his luck. Like he didn't have a whole group project disaster to manage on Monday and a paper due that he just cannot get started. Everything can just fuck all the way off. 

When in doubt, complain in the groupchat. He types an entire paragraph into the Chaos server he shares with Lucien and Carmensita and drops his phone, not expecting a response since it's nearly midnight. 

The buzz surprises him, and before long he's getting on voice chat and logging into the server, sprawling sideways on his bed. “Don't you two have work tomorrow?” 

“Nope!” Carmensita's voice chimes in first, the looping music of her game loading a hiss in the background. “The scheduling manager smiled upon me and gave me a real day off. I'm shutting my phone off tonight and not turning it on until Sunday morning.” 

Lucien laughs quietly, always too far away from his mic. “I do, so I can stay for like an hour, max.” 

“Weeeeeak,” Ernest laughs. “You are two grandpa-shuffles away from tucking yourself into bed at nine.” 

“Oh no,” Lucien affects a worried tone that sounds a smidge too much like Damien's normal speaking voice. “I might live longer and feel better because I get enough sleep instead of dicking around on Blueit until stupid o'clock and wondering why I misspell my own name on job applications.” 

“Hey, hey, hey Lucien, guess what?” Ernest pushes his mic uncomfortably close to his lips, not wanting to bug Ethan again. “Go fuck yourself.” 

A snort-laugh, faraway and staticky. “You guys are such sibling goals.” 

They laugh, deny it, and get on to moving the payload, barely touching on the rant that had kicked off their little session. Within minutes, he's not even thinking of Addison or anyone else. Like there's a little bubble around them, their stupid in-jokes, and the glitches and frustrations within the game. Scrabbling over walls and doing dance emotes, talking like they're all in the same room again instead of a couple hundred miles apart. Some things stay the same and he's so glad about that, even if he doesn't and might not ever have the right syllables to say thanks. 

Lucien goes to bed, logging off after several shared insults. Ernest and Carmensita laugh and move on to another mission and another and another, Ernest notices the time when she pauses at a menu to get a drink. “Dude, it's really late. You must be tired, don't stay on just for me. I'm fine, I was just pissed.” 

“No, no, I'm okay,” she replies, the satisfying crack of a soda fizzing through the mic. “I was actually kind of glad when you messaged, I couldn't get wound down enough to sleep or anything.” 

That makes him sit up out of the weirdly-positioned pillow nest he's built for himself on the end of his bed. “What's up? You're usually all up on that self-care shit, is everything okay?” 

“No, I'm fine. Everything's fine.” Her tone is noticeably forced and Ernest's mind immediately starts churning. The divorce made him permanently lose faith in the 'it's fine' spiel, even though he dishes it out just as often, because hypocrisy. Is it her dad? Is it Julian? Are _they_ getting a divorce? They've been too busy to really talk in over a month, it could be anything. 

“'Sita,” he says, not clicking out of the menu like she has and sounding maybe a little bit pleading. “Tell me what's wrong. C'mon, it's just you, me, and the unspeakable things that watch us sleep.” 

She laughs, familiar and sweet in a way that brings up a visual of her smile, recently freed from orthodontics and stretched wide in every recent selfie. “Nothing in particular, really. Just- all these little things, they add up and make everything seem overwhelming sometimes, you know what I mean?” 

“Yeah, I sure do.” Ernest swallows, tracing his thumb over his game controller. Carmensita was always so positive, she kept everyone's mood up, through everything. But then, those are the people you should worry about the most. “You must be crazy busy with everything.” 

“You don't know the half of it.” Something between a sigh and a half-delirious giggle crackles down the line. She's at a totally different university doing a concurrent music and education major. Ernest picked his major last semester, because the admin office made him. “We've got this one prof who knows all our schedules are like, morning till evening classes almost every day, and she gets all offended when we wear sweats to lecture, goes on these rants like we're ruining our whole future and disappointing her.” 

“What? Fuck her, for real,” Ernest scrunches up his nose, tapping back into the game to stop the relentless menu noise. “Like that has anything to do with- look, you need to tell her that as soon as you stop paying thousands of dollars to show up and watch terrible PowerPoints, you'll put on grown-up pants, pinky promise.” 

Carmensita laughs and then muffles herself, probably worried about her roomies. He's not sure how many she has now, she had to get moved because of some weird water leak, he never heard how that worked out. He wishes she were nearby so he could go give her a hug and make up for being a lazy-ass friend. “I just- I feel like I'm losing my motivation.” 

“Oof, tell me about it, sister.” 

“Heh, not like that. I mean- ugh!” she grumbles, taking a moment to recover from her character getting ulted to death. “I mean- I wonder if anything I'm doing matters? At all? Dad had the band and then us and then the shop, and he's always been so together despite everything- and sometimes I feel like I won't even finish this degree when I know kids with four-point-ohs who show up blazed every day.” 

“Hey,” Ernest hurries over to a neutral area of the game, the grass waving in the same pixelated loop over and over at their characters' feet. “You're the coolest, most-together person I know, okay? You're gonna do awesome no matter what happens, I mean it.” He sighs through his nose, urgently needing to fill the silence with something useful, something good. “And no offence to your dad, honest, but he does take meds in order to do all his stuff. So like, give yourself some credit, nobody feels great all the time. Nobody.” 

Carmensita's quiet on the other end for a minute or two. “I know, but sometimes I look at my future and see a bunch of squiggles. I have no idea if what I'm doing is what I should be doing, or how I should be doing it, or when I should be doing anything. I feel so clueless all the time.” 

“Oh, hard same,” Ernest half-laughs, rubbing at his face. The week is catching up with him, he'll pass out if he doesn't stay sitting up. “Let's be real, look at our birth years. We are destined for several years of adult-childhood yet, my friend. Lots of time to figure out our purpose in life while we're trying to afford shared apartments with one cat and escape an ever-spiralling gig economy.” 

“Truuuue,” Carmensita drawls, equal parts humour and commiseration while they go back to taking out enemies. “They made us take a careers class thing? Like we didn't do that twice in high school- We had to look at postings and there was a job. Paying minimum wage. That demanded a degree and five years experience- I started laughing in the lab and couldn't stop. I think I was trying to cry and my brain broke.” 

“Too real. I say we build our floating commune, I still have the plans from high school. I know a guy, we can get materials.” 

“Oh man, for real?” She sounds lighter if still tired. “Let's do it, off the grid, no need for money. Just goats.” 

“If only I didn't enjoy so many things that unfortunately cost money.” 

“Same, though I'd barter organic lettuce for concert tickets in a heartbeat. Oh yeah, we still need to make that Bebop remix tape happen. If only I had _time,_ ” She sighs, soft in Ernest's ear. “Hey, thanks. For being terrible at dating and giving me a reason to chill.” 

“You're welcome, but also, rude.” They laugh in muffled unison. “You need to stop hanging out with Lucien, you both rag on me too much.” 

“It's deserved. If you'd just wave your little flag, we'd have no reason to rag on you. There's other ace people, you realize? You could, you know, ask them out? If you tried?” 

Ernest groans, slumping into the hoodie he'd gotten during frosh week. It was ugly but too comfortable to toss. “My life is a series of bad decisions, quit trying to ruin it with good advice.” 

Carmensita just laughs and takes out five snipers with her ult. What a pal. 

In the morning, thankfully after he's brushed his teeth, he gets a video call from his dad. The wi-fi in this dorm is better, but the quality still sucks a little. He can make out the darkly-coloured decor of his most recent home- Duchess' death had meant a merging of households, for better or for worse. Damien appears in the background in his ornate housecoat, greeting him much too enthusiastically for before-lunchtime. 

They're helping support his mediocre ass, so he feels compelled to dole out a decent-sounding life report when they call, excluding his worse test marks and listening when they talk about the garden, their work, and the goings-on of the neighbourhood. It's like a little radio news report from the forties or something, it's nice. As long as they call him first he's still being a grown-up, he's not totally dependent like some of his classmates are. 

“So, have you met any new people this year?” Hugo asks, trying and thoroughly failing at sounding casual. Ernest made the mistake of getting to girlfriend-boyfriend status last year, posting about it and everything. Now everyone's encouraging him to rebound even though it barely counted as a break-up. 

He means to lie, not that he loves leading the old man on but he'd rather right-click and clear all on his romantic history, except with Lucien and 'Sita because they just teased him and didn't really worry. But it gets stuck in his throat, something about last night's talk- it leaves him with a feeling he could probably only stick a label on after spending some time in Word or Bandcamp. “Actually, now that you mention it...”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief dip into anxiety/panic attack

It isn't working. 

In spite of everything, Ernest came out of college doing kind of okay. He had an alright resume, a little pocket of savings, some furniture. Better than some kids he sat next to at graduation, for sure. He gets that coveted first apartment to himself- literally a room and a bathroom. The water pressure is like a dog lifting its leg and peeing on him and the neighbours are obnoxious, but it was his. He was paying rent! Utilities! Insurance, even! Life was looking up! Was. 

He stayed in the city he went to school in, With his Pop's new condo a half hour away, it didn't feel so far. They'd have dinner all the time. Pop would give him tips on places to go and things to see. At one point, he says he wouldn't have moved here if he didn't know Ernest was staying. Ernest didn't have a great answer for that, tongue sudden;y stuck. They get froyo anyway. 

His shit job became two shit jobs and then one again, then two, then three very briefly, then one with occasional paid-in-cash online ads stuff. Maybe illegal? Only in a tax law way, so whatever. He busts his ass- well, some of the time. Sometimes he half-asses it and gets paid anyway, other times he gets fired, depends on the place. What it comes down to is that he never has enough money. All the Gen Z-targeted personal finance advice blogs are shit, too. “Get a roommate!” For where? The cupboard under his kitchen sink? 

Actually, in his postal code, someone might take it. But they'd be just as broke as him. 

Even now, he feels spoiled and pathetic. Plenty of people just had to make do, they didn't have a Dad to send cheques in the mail, a stepdad to order them groceries online, a Pop to full-on spot them rent money. He tries and tries to make it work and he _can't._

Finally, he picks up the phone. “Dad?” 

“Ernest? What's the matter? Is everything-” 

“Can I come home?” With his stuff, he means, with the furniture he can't use anymore and his rejected debit card and- 

Hugo makes this little noise, a very parental click of concern that sticks right in his chest. “Of course, always.” 

Lucien drives him because he's been working solely off his laptop and following Pablo around the East Coast. Ernest isn't a hundred percent on what he does, but it's enough to pay for a rental van and a premium streaming account so commercials don't interrupt their drawn-out silence on the way back North to Maple Bay. 

“Do you need to be an asshole about this? I said I was sorry, okay? I'll pay you back as soon as I get money, _god._ ” 

“All I asked,” Lucien drawls, smartass as always. “Is if you wanted me to buy you a bagel. So I'll just buy your least favourite one and we'll carry the fuck on, shall we?” 

Ernest officially hates everything forever, but mostly himself. 

Dad and Damien welcome them home with big, awkward hugs and lots of understanding when he wants to go to bed straightaway and they left his room the way it was and _fuck-_

Pics or it didn't happen, as the young adults say. If no one sees him crying and hugging his teddy in his mid-twenties, it never took place. 

His dignity drops a few more points the next day when he has to beg and plead with his Dad not to tell Pop. 

“What if he goes to your place and you're not there?” Hugo insists, hands soapy from washing the dishes. “He'll be so worried!” 

“He always calls or texts first, always,” Ernest thrusts another dried plate into the cupboard and balls his fists together. “I'm not gonna pretend forever, honest. _Please,_ Dad, just a few more days, that's all I'm asking. It's my thing to tell him, anyway!” 

“Okay, okay,” Hugo holds his hands up in a peacemaking gesture. He tucks some overgrown hair behind his ear- shit, he's gone even more grey. His dads are going grey and he can't afford his own Netflips account. “I won't tell him, but if he calls and asks, I'm not going to lie. Alright?” 

“Fair enough,” Ernest sighs through his nose, tucking the cutlery away in brooding silence. Goddammit, he's too old to brood. This sucks. 

Hugo watches him a minute before draining the sink. “Have you heard from Carmensita? She's back in town, you two should meet for coffee or something. Get your mind off things.” 

Ernest swings his head around, barely listening to the second half of the sentence. “She's back already? I know she was talking about it, but- yeah. I'll text her.” 

He does, and they meet up, later that day because his schedule is open indefinitely. He waves to River and Crish, doing something with multiple types of sportsballs in the Cahn family driveway and thankfully too focused to do more than wave back. Carmensita comes strolling out of Mat's house in a flower-print romper and jogs up the sidewalk to him and he's never, ever been so happy to see someone. 

Except that time he got lost at Disney World, but we don't talk about that. 

“There's my favourite human!” Ernest laughs as she hops up to hug him. He insists he never got taller, she got shorter, but she still gives the greatest hugs. “No more braids, huh? That's a big change.” 

Carmensita giggles and teases her fingers through her mohawk, her sides shaved down to thatches of brown fuzz. “I just got it done, do you like it? It's pretty different, for me at least.” 

“I love it,” Ernest scratches one side of her undercut until she playfully bats his hand away. “Nah, it suits you. Makes you look cool and smart, like you're gonna mess somebody up but with your know-how instead of your fists.” 

“Overly specific, but I'll take it.” Carmensita grins, a flash of snarky white and he feels like he can stand up straighter. They wave again at the over-active River on their way across the cul-de-sac, and 'Sita leans in to him, talking behind her hand. “You heard about Ashley and Mary, right?” 

“Yeah, I sure did.” Ernest glances across the street, almost feeling eyes on him from Mary's house. Which used to be Julian's house, but then Julian and Damien talked and agreed to sell it to Mary shortly after her divorce so she could get out of Damien's spare bedroom and have enough space that custody would be a non-issue. Julian was totally cool with it, because he was practically moved in with Mat anyway and Amanda was fully settled into New York- “God, this neighbourhood is weird.” 

“Something in the groundwater, I think,” Carmensita laughs, shaking her head. “Craig's the real deal though. He's legit totally cool with it. I was here in time for the first summer BBQ and I expected, y'know, some awkwardness.” 

“Folks around here save all the awkwardness for their kids,” Ernest drawl to make her laugh again. It's nearly sticky outside, but he refuses to remove his sweater. He goes bare-armed for exactly two months a year, tans up real nice, and goes right back into his cotton cocoons of happiness. “So how's life n'stuff?” 

“Life n'stuff is pretty good. I've got all my boxes unpacked in less than two months, so that's my record.” She slips off her glasses to polish them on her shirt. “I'll show you my place when we get there, I'm teaching piano lessons out of my living room right now, and- oh! You know what tonight is, right? Are you busy?” 

Ernest shakes his head to both, he's been too depressed to check social media and he definitely isn't busy. “What's tonight?” 

Carmensita grins wide and imitates an airhorn to punctuate her words. “Open mic night! Woo woo woo!” 

It's a little different to watch from the audience with everyone else. The Cahn twins are working part-time at the Spoon now and they're the ones doing the backstage stuff. Lucien drives into town for it, Pablo's tour wrapping up with 'boring business shit' that he'd apparently rather skip. The three of them claim a corner table with high stools and enjoy the quirky parade. 

His dad was right, it is nice to forget about his bullshit for a while. He recognizes kids he used to see racing around the playground strumming guitars and nervously messing up their lyrics. Back then he would have made fun of them, and maybe he does chuckle a little, but he gives them credit. He hasn't been on a stage in- oof, at least a year. Discounting karaoke, of course. He wonders what Disaster Master Quinn is up to these days. 

The night ends, early enough for all the teens to go to bed, with a pretty tight Sunstroke Project cover on theramin. There is much clapping and whooping and thanking before everyone starts clearing out. Carmensita chugs the rest of her coffee, discreetly wiping her mouth on her sleeve. “Alright, let's pay our tabs and head upstairs. Who's feeling Mario Party?” 

“You know I am,” Lucien smirks as they gather their things. “None of the car ones though, I hate that shit.” 

Ernest loses the thread of the conversation because there's a hiss of static in his ears. He can't pay his tab. His chequing account is a negative number and he can't remember if their register takes credit or not but that's not an option either. He's too broke. To pay for a goddamn _tea._ God, why does he only clue into shit when it's too late? 

The thought of asking them to pay makes him wanna puke, so he performs the maneuver that saved him from many a terrible college party: the Irish Goodbye. 

The crowd makes it easy to slip away. He lopes through the parking lot and heads into the undeveloped no-man's land behind the softball field. He shuts off his phone, which any rational instinct would encourage him not to do. He's gonna take the long, long way home and- then what? Isn't that just the biggest fucking question of his life- and then what, you witless idiot? 

The static does not stop as he hurries through the warm summer air, eventually cutting across the street and walking down the bay. His pulse is really high for no friggin' reason and he probably couldn't type a text if he needed to- wait, is this a panic attack? No, come on. He's too old to get on any of his dads' benefits. He can't be doing this. He can't, he can't- 

A car drives up slowly beside him, and he has a split-second of facing his death before the window rolls down to reveal two annoyed, very familiar faces. “You live in my Dad's house, what the hell was your long-term plan with this?” 

“Look, I'm sorry, I couldn't pay and I-” Ernest rakes a hand through his hair, pulling on his scalp. “I'm sorry I'm such a fuck-up, okay? I shouldn't have come out tonight, I'm no good to be around right now.” 

Carmensita runs her tongue over her bottom lip. “You ditched us over a four-ninety-seven tab?” 

“I called it.” 

She scowls, undoes her seatbelt, and clambers out of the passenger door, stomping around to his side. “Give me your face, right now. C'mere-” 

Ernest hunches his shoulders so she can reach, mostly out of confusion. She takes his cheeks in her warm hands and paps them with each word, like she's trying to wake up a drunk guy in a movie. “We're not hanging out with your wallet! We want to hang out with _you,_ if you'll stop! Being! Such! A! Dumbass!” 

“Can you stop smacking my face?” 

“Maybe,” Carmensita drops her hands after two more, crossing her arms. “Seriously though, not cool. What's gotten into you?” 

“Dude, I forgot that I couldn't afford to buy a bagel, like how fucked am I?” Ernest scrubs his face, palms burning with his need for a shave. “Everything's so messed up right now. I feel like a complete waste of space.” 

“Again with this?” Lucien makes an irritated noise from the car, leaning out the window. “Like you're the only one who's ever been broke. How much money do you think I had after college?” 

“Why do you think I'm living over my dad's shop?” Carmensita tilts her head at him. “I know you're upset, but you're not on your own, for god's sake. I would have bought you that bagel anyway, you didn't need to freak out.” 

“Guhhhh,” Ernest pushes the heel of one palm against his eye. “I'm sorry I'm such an idiot. I can barely fuckin' think right now.” 

“Do you wanna go home or do you wanna play video games with us?” Lucien asks, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “No judgment either way. But maybe decide quick, before some cops come by and get all up in our business.” 

Ernest would really like to bury himself in all of his blankets but, in the interest of not continuing to screw up his personal relationships, he picks the right choice. “Video games, please.” 

They collectively kick the CPU's ass at getting stars and Carmensita hugs him before he leaves, Lucien's taillights in the distance. “You're not a waste of space, okay? It'll get better, just don't let things get this bad again.” 

He almost misses being the one to cheer her up. It's a shitty thing to miss, but at least he didn't go home feeling all squashed on the inside. 

Ernest gets up the guts to call his Pop a few days later. He's totally cool about it, even though he sunk how much into that one room. Somehow that makes Ernest feel worse. 

“Trust me, my credit in my early twenties was a _mess,_ I was really stupid with my money. It was bad. Like, scary bad. Your gramps flipped his lid when he saw my pile of bills on the table.” 

“Mine's a mess too,” Ernest mumbles, knees folded up to his chest as he leans back against his headboard. 

“Yeah, but it's more fixable than it looks. It'll just take time. If you owned a car or something that would be kinda rough, but hey, I turned it around, didn't I? Before I met your dad too, no way would he have dated pre-grad school me. Nuh-uh,” Pop laughs, a hiss-crack in his ear because he does this weird almost-silent laugh that Ernest makes fun of constantly. “Tell you what, I'll pay off your card so you're not getting those assholes calling you every day. Then you can focus on finding a job, I heard they have a youth program you'd still-” 

“I'm sorry,” Ernest manages to wobble out, a big lump in his throat as the tears burn. 

“What?” Pop's voice turns all anxious and concerned, which hurts even worse. “Hey, kiddo, it's alright. You don't have to be sorry. I know you were trying your best, it's really tough when you're starting out alone-” 

“I'm so sorry,” Ernest hiccups, covering his face with his hand as he snots. “I can't pay you back and I probably never will and I'm gonna have to put Dad in a nursing home with cockroaches because they just slashed teacher pensions again and everything is so fucked _forever._ ” 

“Ernest, Ernest, listen to me,” Pop's voice strains against the weak receiver of his phone. “Nothing is fucked, okay? No one's mad at you. We'll fix this, I promise. Ernest?” 

It's a rough month, for sure. Pop comes to visit. Him and Dad have been really good at not-bitching-at-each-other since he crossed that adulthood threshold. Maybe it was child support that made them fight after all. Pop used to get these little digs into dad, telling him to quit and go into something with a future. Maybe him and money are just cursed or something. 

He loses it again when they hug him at the same time. He's only gotten those at graduations and he's all out of those now. “We would do anything and everything for you, do you hear me?” Dad is halfway out of his lawn chair, the three of them on the back porch, having borrowed a little barbecue from Brian. “I'd rather have you here than starving in some apartment somewhere. Everything's going to be fine, mijo. I promise.” 

“I'll bring you down for a visit whenever you want.” Pop assures him as he's leaving, hugging him again. It's so weird that he's taller than him now. “If you want to move, I'll help. But honestly, you might be better off here for a bit. Rent is going crazy in the city and it's not worth it.” 

“How does a couple hours' drive make such a huge difference?” Ernest sniffs, shuffling in the driveway. 

“I mean, I could explain but it's really boring.” He smiles and ruffles his hair. “You'll be alright, kiddo. Don't worry so much, okay?” Easier said than done, but it's well-meant. He accepts it. 

He does qualify for extra help at the employment place, but unfortunately he has a humanities degree, which means no marketable skills. Which means part-time at the small bougie grocery store downtown, which is in fact a hell of a lot better than nothing. 

“Excuse me.” An older woman clutching a plastic handbag strolls up to him while he's stocking shelves. “Do you have any of those sweet honey mustards?” 

“No ma'am, sorry. We ran out.” 

She narrows her beady eyes at him. “Why?” 

Most of the time. 

Carmensita's doing pretty well for herself between the Coffee Spoon and her piano lessons. Not move-into-her-own-place good, but she's got a nice little loft space over the shop. Sick prints up all over the walls, those fairy lights she's always liked, her keyboard set up beside her computer desk all tidy for when the kids come by. Ernest spends his off-hours googling potential side-hustles and making music for the first time in a while. 

“-Practically everybody's stressed, yes!” Ernest snaps his fingers with one hand and runs his beats with the other. “But they press through the mess, bounce cheques, and wonder what's next!” 

“In the heights! I buy my coffee and I go,” Carmensita sings clear as anything, laying into her keys. “Set my sights on only what I need to know...” 

“Girl, how'd you get so good at that? Damn,” Ernest shakes his head after they stop recording. “It's like Mandy Gonzalez was right here.” 

“Vocal coaching, son!” Carmensita grins, sticking out her thumb and pinky finger and twisting her wrist. “Taught me how to sing from the diaphraaaaaaagm.” 

Ernest cracks up at the low note she hits, spinning around in her chair and staring at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling. “Hey, do you ever feel bad for being happy? Like, you're not supposed to be, or something?” 

“Hell yeah, all the time,” Carmensita stretches, laying out on her secondhand piano bench and popping her back. “Like if I'm having a good day I get thinking, 'oh but if I was at X point, I could be doing Y.' I think I'm scared I'll get complacent or something.” 

“Yeah,” Ernest sits up, catching his feet on the carpet. “But like, I don't know how long our whole generation's gonna be stuck like this. So if we can't enjoy this...” 

“Oof, heavy stuff.” Carmensita swats at the bag of mini Oreos until he passes it to her, grabbing a handful himself. “This isn't so bad though. Who knows, maybe we'll look back with nostalgia goggles and miss it.” 

“Yeah.” He settles back in the chair, toying with the music program on his aging laptop. “Maybe.” 

Carmensita sits up, tugging her off-the-shoulder t-shirt back down where it had ridden up on her belly. “Wanna eat pot brownies and watch Bebop again?” 

Ernest scoffs. “Is that even a question?” 

By the time Pablo and Lucien come down for Thanksgiving Part One (there's always cliffhanger holidays with divorced parents, but it's not so bad anymore, it's just a part of it), his life has a routine. He's too grown to resent 'being another cog in the machine' in any significant way. Predictable income and free time is a blessing and a half and he's not giving it up unless he works his way up to something real good. Which will take time, and energy, and so, so much luck. 

But right now he's got a favourite lunch and does his share of the chores (cleaning Damien's weird house only seems daunting, it just takes a lot of furniture polish and a big-ass feather duster). He sees his Pop as often as he can with him jetting all over the continent, texting when they're in different time zones and laughing about stupid coworker stories (his Pop's are more maddening, apparently higher salaries don't strain out the truly incompetent, somehow that's comforting, too). 

He can pay for Coffee Spoon bagels now, coming to Carmensita's aid during lulls in her shifts. Both their schedules are pretty regular, so they exchange barely a message or two before coming to see each other at certain points in the week. With what pocket money they do have, they get concert tickets once or twice, go ice skating, and buy fries at the mall, wandering around the stores after dark and trying to pick out new versions of themselves. Mostly they just go home with small things they don't need and pricey chocolate bars they split. When she gets wicked cramps, he hits her up with aspirin and movies they've seen ten times. When he can't get out of bed, she sends him memes and cute dog videos. 

Dad and Damien are gross as per usual, but they're also way less nosy than they used to be. It's weird to just take off for the day or night without any further questions. Though coming back is a different story. 

“I got your text,” Hugo leans out of the study (yes, they have one, of course they do) when he hears Ernest's sock feet shuffling up the hallway. “What happened?” 

“I don't know,” Ernest shrugs, unbuttoning his uniform shirt. “A sewer main burst while they were working on the parking lot. The fire department scooted everyone out of there pretty quick, it smelled awful. I had better get paid for the full shift.” 

“You have a right to, you weren't the one driving the backhoe.” His dad grins, re-shelving a book before shutting the door. “On the bright side, unexpected free time is always a bonus.” 

“It sure is, and I'm gonna use it to take a well-deserved nap.” 

“Oh.” A beat while he fixes his expression. “Okay, I'll record that documentary for you.” 

Ernest turns, hand on the ornate doorframe. “Is that on today?” Hugo's eager nod goes right between his ribs and he smiles. “Nah, I'll watch it with you. Naps mess up my sleep schedule anyway, make me all cranky in the morning.” 

“As opposed to any other morning?” 

“Rude,” he snorts while his dad chuckles. “I'll be down in a minute, okay? Just gotta get changed and stuff.” 

“Okay.” Not five minutes into changing and checking his email, he gets a text. 

HV: You want to order in for dinner? Two-for-one at the pizza place 

HV: We can get those chicken bite things, I have a coupon :) 

Ernest laughs, oddly reminded of coming home to Duchess after high school sleepovers. He sends a quick 'sure dad,' and takes some of his recycling down. They spend the evening in their boxers on the couch in the den, three of the four hairless cats Damien had adopted when they came through the shelter (he didn't last long post-Duchess once he had a taste of pet ownership) snuggled up beside and on top of them. It's not their first or last night spent this way. 

He does quietly scream to the heavens at the mere suggestion of a girlfriend. “I'm a cashier- oh, sorry, 'customer service associate.' All I've got to offer someone right now is pocket lint and my winning personality.” 

“But that is precisely what you should be offering in a relationship!” Damien insists, winding black tinsel up the staircase while Ernest does the same on the other side. “If wealth was a prerequisite, only the rich would fall in love.” 

“I don't need to be rich, but I do need a little something to put in my dating profile, you know?” He's already down a few pegs courtesy of his 'no sex for me please' sexuality, but he won't bring that up now. Tis the season, and all that. 

“You have much to include! You are in possession of many fine qualities,” Damien smiles at him, looking less vampire and more nerd with his hair up in a bun and his glasses on. His outfit is like Dickens and Mary Shelley had a weird baby, though. “Your father and I just think it would be nice if you had someone special in your life, that's all. We're not pressuring you to bring someone home for the holidays.” 

“Well, that's appreciated,” Ernest ties off the tinsel, zipping up his hoodie again. What did thermostats ever do to fathers, anyway? “I'm just kind focusing on me right now. I'll get in a relationship when I'm in a better spot.” 

“Ah, that is fair,” Damien grabs another handful of tinsel for the top banisters. “But love can happen upon you when you least expect it. Such was the case for me both times.” 

Ernest had never decided if Damien getting sappy about his dead husband or his very-alive husband who is also Ernest's dad was worse, they might tie for first place. 

EHV: Plz never let me become this gross n sentimental when I'm old plz 

LB: You cry at Hamilton now and you've seen it so many fing times 

EHV: ELIZA DESERVED BETTER GDI DON'T START W ME 

CS: I WILL CRY AT ITS QUIET UPTOWN UNTIL THE DAY I DIE FIGHT ME SCRUB

EHV: YEAH THAT'S RIGHT 

LB: Oh ffs I forgot this was the groupchat 

Speaking of awkward sad times, this year's holidays are busy and bright and not as rushed as last year where he could barely visit anyone for more than a couple hours, but the same anniversary comes around. He's celebrating a third Christmas up at Damien's parents place over New Year's weekend, laughing it up while everyone is maybe too drunk, but he has a sixth sense when that text buzzes in. 

CS: I wish missing someone didn't hurt so much :( 

EHV: I know <3 

CS: Dad's sad, but he's got Julian now 

CS: I'm just by myself up in my old room, they're asleep already

EHV: Aw, shit. Do you want me to call you? 

CS: No, you're with family. I'm fine 

EHV: Everyone is tipsy and Dad is losing at trivial pursuit 

CS: Okay then yes please <3 

He makes his first appearance at open mic night in the cold and crisp new year. One technical glitch makes him nearly piss himself but it otherwise goes okay. Carmensita sings right after him, her dad on guitar and it's so frickin' good. 

“God, you guys are so cool,” he says afterwards, spinning a bottle of Windex around his finger and taking Wild West-style aim at the glass in front of the baked goods. 

“Glad I've still got it,” Mat grins, going back to counting the money. “You should do more of these, everyone was super into it. There's another place that does really good open mics out in the boonies, it's a cafe-arthouse thing.” 

“You think so?” Ernest had immediately repressed all memory of his performance upon leaving the stage, it was a good coping technique. 

“We should start a YouWatch channel!” Carmensita exclaims, as if for the first time, though she's been bugging him for weeks. “We'll do covers to get the subs, then post our own stuff! I bet we could get sponsors!” 

“Mister Sella,” Ernest says very seriously. “Are you aware that your daughter is selling out to the man?” 

'Sita hits him with a broom, but he does decide to take the leap. Not like starting a channel takes a lot of upfront capital investment, exactly. They do pool money for one good mic, and figure they'll work their way up if it turns out to be worth it. They pick songs from their early teens to indulge their own and others' guilty pleasure fix, and they do weird remixes of things that aren't songs, and he convinces Carmensita to do tag videos. It's fun, and some people like it. Not a ton, but hey, maybe someday. 

They only complain on days they're not recording, not wanting to wreck their voices. This time they're slumped on Ernest's bed, him whinging continuously after his first attempt at online dating ended in utter failure, therefore he should give up and never try again, right? Less money on dating, more money to eventually adopt dogs? 

“Ernest, I want you to try something.” Carmensita reaches over and covers his eyes, her voice only a little exasperated. “Envision what you want in a relationship. Dad taught me this, I used it to figure out where I wanted to go for college.” 

“Okay. Does it work, or is it some hokey bullshit?” 

“Quit being rude and humour me, dammit.” 

“Alright, alright,” he laughs, feeling her well-manicured thumb jab his cheek. He wets his lips while he thinks for a moment. “Uh, I wanna be with someone who's funny and nice, fun to be around.” 

“Okay, can we get a little more depth than that?” 

“Give me a second here, woman,” he snorts. “I want- someone who's chill, who likes some of the stuff I like- not everything, but we gotta have stuff to do together, you know?” Carmensita hums. “I want- I really want someone I can build a future with. I don't wanna just play around, y'know? I want someone responsible- heh, maybe not too responsible. But someone I can trust, someone I can see myself having kids with.” 

“Woah, you want kids-plural now?” 

“Well not a whole bunch, but two would be nice. They can play with each other- anyway,” Ernest gulps, strangely caught up in the thought process. “I want someone who when I look at her- I just want all the good stuff in the world for her. She's going places and she's talented- I want someone who I really get, who gets me back. When people talk about marrying their best friend, that's- that's what I want. Someone who- accepts me, and we can be ourselves around each other, always.” 

They're quiet a moment, Carmensita's hand still on his face. She takes it away slowly and smiles softly. “So, you want what you have with me, but with kissing?” 

Ernest blanks for a solid thirty seconds before raising his finger. “Okay, first of all, when did you get so smooth?” 

Carmensita laughs, loud and cute, sweeping some loose curls off her forehead and looking at him with these eyes- he's never seen her look at him like that until now. Or maybe he was just that clueless. “Is that really all you want to ask me?” 

Ernest swallows, loud enough to hear it, sitting up a little straighter. “Can I- kiss you?” 

“I don't know, can you?” 

He groans outright, dropping his head on her shoulder while she giggles. “One of these days, 'Sita, one of these days.” 

She smells really nice this close, maybe it's her shampoo? It's damn good, whatever it is. Her hands end up on his shoulders, not pressing, just holding him. He lifts his head and god, that little moment of eye contact before they both lean forward- 

First kisses are not usually perfect, but he's willing to call this one close enough. She's warm and soft beneath his lips. His arms slip around her waist and it's like she was made to fit against him. He outright sighs when they part, kissing her nose just to hear her laugh again. 

“Are you-” He can't quite find his words right now, his mind cycling through all the new and so very nice stimuli his senses are taking in. Carmensita's always been beautiful to him but he never thought, never let himself- “Do you- are you sure you wanna do this? I can't- I really like you, but I don't think I'll ever be able to do the physical stuff. You deserve-” 

She presses a finger to his lips and he silences himself immediately, distracted by the light of her eyes. “There's nothing I want that online shopping with discreet shipping can't provide. None of that 'you deserve better' crap. I want you, if you want me back, then we should keep kissing and see where it takes us.” 

Ernest works his jaw for a few moments, then nods. “Yeah, I can get behind that train of thought.” 

Carmensita's laugh as he pulls her in for more smooches is the sweetest sound he's ever heard. 

They end up cuddling up and falling asleep together- hahaha an asexual sleeping with someone on the first date, hahaha, puns and stuff -a bonus of neither of them having morning shifts the next day and Carmensita not having anyone expecting her back at home. He wakes up before she does, spooned up behind her, all their clothes rumpled, the blankets cocooned around them. He kisses the nape of her neck and sighs. He feels content, for the first time in a while. 

The softest of knocks precedes the door creaking open. “Hey, Ernest, do you want- _oh._ ” 

The door shuts quickly, rousing Carmensita and making Ernest groan. “So much for keeping quiet about it.” 

“Were we going to?” She yawns, sitting up and stretching. “Also, I'm bringing my silk pillowcases or we're only sleeping at my place. How do you live like this?” 

“I dunno, I'm a mess.” He laughs and sits up, a tentative hand on her back. “I just- I'm scared. We've been friends for so long, I don't want to risk it going badly.” 

“But if we don't risk it going badly, we also don't risk it going well.” She clumsily boops his nose, smiling dopily at him. “Guess which outcome I have my money on?” 

“Girl, what money?” He laughs when she jabs him in the stomach. He leans in for a kiss after a moment, realizing that they can do that now, and smooches her cheek gladly. “So, if the Dads know, that means we're officially an 'us.'” 

“We are.” She grins and kisses his cheek back. “I like being an us, it's pretty great so far.” 

“It is.” He grins back, feeling like he can't stop. Shit, it's really happening. Is he in love? Is that an okay word to use after literally one very unexpected day? Probably not out loud. 

He walks her downstairs, and they whisper-laugh a few walk-of-shame jokes before she heads out in her poofy pink coat, leaving him alone with the giddy feeling in his gut. In the dining room, Dad and Damien are doing maybe the worst acting job he's ever seen. “Are you two gonna make a big deal out of this?” 

“Make a big deal out of what?” Damien inquires with convincing innocence, frying pan and spatula in hand. 

“Yes, is there something we should make a big deal out of?” Hugo smiles, legitimately doing the newspaper crossword like he's a goddamn cartoon character. 

Ernest sighs and drops into his chair, accepting several pancakes from Damien. “We literally just started- dating, I guess. No wedding bells, no grandbabies, nothing crazy yet, so please relax.” 

“You know we're not like that.” 

“Certainly, I'm not my mother.” Damien chuckles, almost unconsciously rubbing Hugo's robe-covered arm while they eat. So gross, but also goals.

“But, out of curiosity,” Hugo teasingly elbows him. “Did you kiss her yet?” 

The dads laugh while Ernest howls. He'd text his Pop for backup, but he will get the exact same shit in different wording. He pulls out his phone and texts Lucien instead. 

EHV: Hey Carmensita and I are dating just FYI 

LB: About gd time, you've been heart eyes at her for literal years 

CS: What 

CS: Lucien why would you not tell me this 

CS: I COULD HAVE SAVED SO MUCH TIME >:( 

EHV: Oh shit group chat again 

LB: Let's rename these things plz 

EHV: Sorry babe <3 

CS: Np hon ;* 

LB: And here I am, third wheeling it again 

EHV: You are basically married stfu 

LB: That does not make this better 

CS: Ladies ladies, you're both pretty 

EHV: Sita knows whats uppppp 

LB: Finishing BNHA this weekend y/n? 

CS: Y, obvs 

EHV: Also Y, I'm off at 7 don't watch ahead 

LB: Don't walk so slow and we won't 

EHV: Eat a dick 

CS: G2g, love you guys 

EHV: Love ya too 

LB: <3 

LB: Also, straaaaaaaaaaight 

EHV: Fuckin really dude 

LB: Someone has to 

LB: Tell Dad I'm coming for dinner tonight 

EHV: Will do, bye weeb 

LB: Cya loser

**Author's Note:**

> So! This idea percolated in my head back when I was writing the first three parts of this series, I shared it on a very fun now RIP, miss it) Vegamarch discord but I stopped writing because life stuff happened and I wasn't active in any fandom for a bit. But I still love Dream Daddy SO MUCH and these characters, so thanks to the lovely lovely sinunamor on tumblr (follow them! they're sweet and post cute AF drawings: http://sinunamor.tumblr.com/) , I brought this little story to life as part of a fic exchange with them. Nothing deep or serious, just some fun with the kid characters and my boy Ernest <3   
> The Dream Daddy extension was a happy coincidence to me posting this (I'm only just about to play;; no spoilers I guess?)   
> Hope you enjoyed this light fic fare! Thanks for reading!!


End file.
